


Jawbreaker

by LelithSugar



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, BDSM, Consensual Kink, Consensual Thramsay, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Fantasizing, Fetish, Fluff and Smut, Force-Feeding, Gags, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, If you think this has a happy ending... you're right well done you, M/M, Master/Slave, Objectification, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Predicament Bondage, Ramsay is his own warning, Roleplay, Scold's Bridle, Smut, Torture Devices, branks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2017-06-25
Packaged: 2018-11-18 22:25:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11300088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Ramsay has access to a great array of wonderfully horrible things and Theon... Theon doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut.An ode to a lovely bit of torture kit known as a Scold's Bridle, and the rest is in the tags. Pure PWP, despite the length.





	1. Down

**Author's Note:**

> This was intended to be a little drabble focusing on a bit of torture kit I'm particularly enamoured of, much in the vein of 'Time to waste'. 13 thousand plus words later... I may have got a bit carried away. I've chaptered it almost arbitrarily just to break the text up but it is, effectively, one long scene and I would encourage reading it as such for the proper cumulative smut effect. I don't think any warnings apply to this one unless any of the tags feel triggery to you, in which case proceed with caution. 
> 
> The usual crib notes if you're not au fait with the AU: Part of the Bloodied Up consensual!Thramsayverse, in which Ramsay and Theon are in a consensual and loving (albeit BDSM themed) relationship and most of the version we see in Game of Thrones is the result of rumours they've encouraged to circulate so they can hide in plain sight, pair of pervs that they are. If you're happy to accept my ridiculous premise for happy consensual kink porn at face value than there it is, but there is more depth and explanation given in the other stories in the series than this one. I'm not saying it's any less ridiculous, but it's been given a hell of a lot of thought.

It's not that Theon doesn't know what's good for him. It's that what others might think is good for him bears very little semblance to what he actually likes. Clearly, had he been intent on avoiding pain... abject humiliation, ritual sexual torment... he'd have been going about it the wrong way entirely, but those just happen to be some of Theon's favourite pleasures, especially when dished out by someone who can be counted upon to know when to stop, and when to push through because the screaming and pleading and crying just mean he's _ really _ enjoying himself. He's a lucky lad, all things considered, although people may assume otherwise.

 And of course that allows Ramsay to constantly keep him on his toes by kindly indulging the torture he so desires, or torturing him with kindness by witholding it.

 This was apparently to be one of the latter types of days. No amount of needling at Ramsay has managed to get Theon the slap he's been after, or the inevitable loss of control that follows. The heir apparent to the Dreadfort had been firmly consumed in letter writing all morning, and the most Theon had earned for his relentless teasing was a lacklustre telling off. He's bored.

 Theon slinks over to the desk but doesn't present himself in Ramsay's line of sight and try to seduce his attention. He doesn't bother trying to read what he's writing over his shoulder: in all honesty he probably wouldn't have cared even when he was supposed to, and it's been a long time since he had to acknowledge any world outside Ramsay's immediate vicinity. Instead he settles for resting his chest against Ramsay's back and dragging his fingers through Ramsay's hair to pull it back from his face.

 “I reckon you'll look just like your father when you're older.”

 “Theon.”

 “What? I don't know what you're cross about. It's me that has to look at you.”

 “Theon.”

 “I've seen it. You northern boys are all dark curls and rosy cheeks for a time, and then-”

 “One more word out of your mouth and I swear I'll shut you up for the rest of the day.”

 And probably there are several words that might negate the totality of that... One word, specifically, would put a stop to it all immediately; a reasonable question, a hesitation or query might give a pause to clarify just what this might entail; a few would make it worse: 'please' or 'sorry' being particular favourites. But the word he opts for, with a tongue poke and a grin, is unquestionably both consent and a challenge.

 “Bastard.”

 All at once, Ramsay's chair is on its back on the floor and the grip around Theon's bicep is bruising: the feeling that floods will him in response is of pride before it turns to nervous excitement and then pure lust: he asked for this. Now it's time to find out exactly what he's talked himself into.

 

***

 

Theon is yanked bodily across the courtyard, stumbling over his own trashed boots and knocking into Ramsay as he's dragged along by the crushing hold on his shoulder. He's busy lapping up the stares at his plight and imagining the perfect imprint of Ramnsay's fingertips he can feel blackening on his arm so it takes him a while to realise that they're not headed down the steps to the dungeons as he was expecting, but towards the outbuilding at the back of the kennels where unspecific equipment is kept and where Ramsay's hangers-on tend to conglomerate at any point when they aren't going to be missed elsewhere. This bodes ill.

 As soon as the door is thrown open – before Theon can be thrown through it, although he quickly is - Damon starts up from where they've been playing dice on a barrel in the corner. If he's surprised to see Ramsay he covers it well.

“And what can we do for you on this fine mornin', my Lord?”

It's true, it'd be a beautiful morning for hunting – cold but bright – and Ramsay has chosen to spend at least this slice of it in the musty damp of the barn building on whatever punishment he's seen fit for Theon's wilful insolence. That itself makes Theon warm under his skin, in a way that almost rivals the fierce arousal of wondering what Ramsay plans to do to him, and how it relates to this room full of horrid people and horrific things.

Ramsay flings open a door to a larder-like alcove and begins to pull out objects at random: ominous things that fall to the floor in a clamour of iron and he raises his voice to answer.

"Branks. I've grown tired of this one mumbling to himself.” He jerks his head at Theon, who stands quaking exactly where he was put. “If I'm reminded of one more word that rhymes with Reek I'll be inclined to change what I call him entirely, and as it I'm struggling to come up with a good reason to name him 'Orange'.”

Oblivious to the wit, Skinner pipes up from the corner, where he's twirling a knife.

“Why don't you just cut his tongue out? '

Ramsay stops what he's doing and regards him sardonically for a long moment. “...you're not a smart man, are you, Skinner?"

Skinner blinks for a moment, unsure what he's missed, but  Damon is... always has been... a little quicker on the uptake, or cut from more similar cloth to Ramsay himself than is comfortable for anyone, so he knows exactly what that meant. By the time attention turns to him he's already glanced in two chests and is rootling through a third, obviously after something specific. He finds it.

“Here, Ramsay, you'll like this.” He's holding a scold's bridle. It's more or less exactly what Ramsay had set out for, but it looks different to most, which means it's probably a Dreadfort speciality: Something horrible, made worse by an added flair for the truly unbearable and an utter disdain for human feeling. Damon jerks his head in the direction of Reek, still looking at his lord. “Can I put it on him for you? Won't hurt him, I promise.”

There's none of the dark grinning that would suggest the last bit is a jape – he knows better.

Ramsay glances sidelong and to an outsider it would appear to be consideration rather than a question, and the quiet  _ “please, please no...” _ from Reek would seem another useless protest in a long line of wastes of breath rather than a veiled answer. But it's their oldest and simplest code: 'Please' means just that, and all words following it are to be ignored. A plea beginning with 'no' or 'stop' or a scream or any other word would be heeded as subtly as possible - and anybody paying attention might have noticed that Ramsay's abrupt and seemingly unpredictable changes of tack actually followed a pattern - but the word 'please' is Theon's way to give an assent, loud and clear, whilst everyone else dwells on the words after.

So Ramsay nods mutely, confident that Damon will be as careful with Theon as he is capable of. Nobody touches Reek without express permission, particularly after the last man to leave a mark on Ramsay's pet had come down with a mysterious case of dagger to the eye socket

Damon goes about loosening the brackets to open the device, standing closer to Reek than he has to, posturing intimidation over the poor creature for Ramsay's benefit - or so he thinks. With the hinges spread, he balances it over his knee so that he can use his hands to shove Theon into a kneel and prise his mouth open, fighting the clench of his jaw until Ramsay bids him comply with a low sweetness, like chiding a child.

“ _ Reek _ . Open your mouth for Damon.”

On his master's voice he does as he's told, and Damon tentatively lets go, smirking when Theon does not move to bite him or even attempt close his mouth. He tests him, pushing his fingers in without meeting any resistance, and Theon wants to laugh at the look on his face as the implications of Reek's well-trained willingness filter in... except he also wants to ram that home, to keep his mouth slack and wet and compliant around Damon's fingers so he can't help but think about how used to this he must be. The lewdness of it chokes the scene: Theon does his best to look traumatised but willing, too broken to resist this indignity which is suddenly so obviously not new to him whilst he gags and shudders around Damon's hand; Ramsay stares on without making to interrupt, his face unreadable although Theon knows exactly what he's picturing, and it's a struggle not to groan at the thought, shared across the room. This is what he wanted, in some way, and Theon almost wants to flick his tongue up around Damon's fingers, to relax his throat for him, to really let Ramsay show off what he has at his disposal whenever he wants it to his heart's content. But no, this is enough.

Ramsay's tense exhalation – it might sound like anger, Theon knows it isn't but also that nobody in their right mind would test it – breaks the silence. Damon withdraws his fingers as if he  _ had  _ been bitten and shoves the long, solid metal plate centric to the device awkardly between Theon's teeth. Theon doesn't struggle but he susprises himself by coughing at how far back into his throat it goes, pressing it down onto his tongue, cold metal filling his mouth. At the front it's shaped like a horse's bit straight between his teeth, and Damon taps him quite softly under the jaw to make Theon bite around it. He's surprised that it only tastes of iron until he remembers that blood tastes a lot like iron too, but thank the Drowned God it's at least dry and cold, so it's not been used  _ that _ recently.

At some length Damon bends the rest of the contraption at the hinges to clasp around the kneeling captive's head, closes the hinges and bolts the whole thing shut. Theon's surprised by how heavy the awful thing is, how rigid and serious, and it only helps him slip further ito the fantasy: he's helpless, beaten and tortured and corrupted at the hands of the Dreadfort's mad bastard heir and his sadistic, amoral friends. He's treated as sport, a toy or plaything to hurt and use and abuse as they will.

He's rock hard and shaking.

Damon winches the device tighter, adjusting it to hold tight against Theon's face and tangle itself into his hair, to brace around his jaw and keep his mouth totally immobile, shoved full of metal so that saliva begins to leak out at the corners of his lips.

Theon's frightened breath puffs through his nose. His shivering is only half an act: this is new and elaborate. Ramsay has him obedient on a word, or at most a threat; he uses force when he wants to, when it suits them, but rarely does he resort to actual equipment to achieve his ends, even when he's surrounded by it, even when Theon has definitely made his fantasies about perverting some of the Dreadfort's more interesting instruments quite plain. Finally being strapped into something so specific is every bit as terrifying and exciting as he'd made it in his head, and he's set on making the most of the experience as well as that of being forced to kneel in front of one of Ramsay's men, pulled around and loomed over...  


He always knew he was sick. As a child he wanted to hear all the worst stories... not the ones about wights and Others, but about the people who turned inflicting pain and terror into an art form. He'd thought proudly that it was the cruelty of the sea in his blood that drew him to it, but then he got older, his other appetites kicked in, and the truth became apparent. He gathered from brothel talk that there were others like him: men that thrived on being hurt and belittled and paid their girls to slap them and spit on them and make them beg for cunt they'd already paid for, but none so depraved as to dream about being strapped into the equipment used to tear people limb from limb, and battered and threatened with horrible deaths until he's forced to offer himself in undignified servitude... to offer his mouth and his arse and his flesh to his captors, broken and humiliated and having no choice but to be fucked in ways even the whores would say no to...

And now here he is. He'll be one of those stories one day: the hostage prince who was tortured and enslaved by Ramsay Bolton, shackled up and paraded round and now trotted out as a cautionary tale to remind people of the perils of pride and promiscuity. They'll not include the part where he loves every filthy second.

Versed as Theon is in this particular sort of depravity, he easily recognises the scold's bridle even from the inside, and Ramsay must look summarily unimpressed by his men simply pandering to ideas he'd already had, because Damon jumps in to explain his happiness at having found just the right one.

 “Ah, but your lord father had this one... adjusted.” That gets Ramsay's attention back from Reek's beautifully muffled whimpering to Damon's bawdy grin. “Made for interrogations, see. The tongue plate stops them bloody screaming alright, because it goes a long way back, see. May I?”

 Ramsay nods and Damon boots Theon in the side of the ribs – not so viciously, but enough that Theon shrieks and all that comes out is a low buzz between his teeth and the iron. His body thrums with it, but he keeps himself calm, meek, wide eyed but unresisting and lets the pain sing through his body.   


 “But... come here, you're going to want to know how to do this.”

 Theon can't see what Damon's doing at the side of his jaw – he knows he'll come to no real harm, not with Ramsay so close, but he still has no idea what's about to be done to him - but Ramsay steps bends in to look where he's fiddling, and he winces. There's a pop of a stiff catch and a horrid, cold dragging at his teeth, and then Damon is pulling the thick iron plate that's been filling his mouth out to swing on its hinge, trailed by a string of saliva. Theon's mouth is open and empty, the rest of his face still tightly braced.

“You dont have to take it off them when you do want them to talk. Or... not. Endless possibilities.”

The grin in Ramsay's voice is louder than his words and he slaps his man on the shoulder.

“You're a sick and ill bred fuck, Damon. I can't  _ imagine  _ what you're alluding to.“ He flashes that broad smile to Theon, filthy and dangerous, then back to Damon again. “I'm oing to need good wine and a fresh bale of linen, and pliers. Salt, and senna root, and perhaps a spare bowl of whatever they're putting out for the pigs this afternoon.  And I don't want you bringing them up and interrupting me, either. Send a maid.”

Damon looks momentarily awestruck, then put-out, but sees the sense in it and simply gives Reek a soft shove. 

“Off you go then! I'll have your master excused from drills this afternoon. I'm sure you've got hours of fun to look forward to.”

And it's not entirely clear who that last bit is directed at, considering that the initial suggestion was Damon's even before he shoved his fingers in Reek's mouth. He can only paint his own sickness into the gaps now, as can Theon, who knows at least some of Ramsay's requests will have been deliberate misdirection but is much, much less confident about which.  


Vulnerability lays its hot hands on the back of Theon's neck and starts to massage into the muscle, slow and seductive. The implications of his predicament are too varied to contemplate but the most vulgar are the most obvious, and he's awash with the awareness of it. Arousal twists itself into a solid knot low in his gut at the endless list of things Ramsay can do to him; the few he almost definitely will; the fact he quite literally isn't going to get a say in anything that happens to him today. He tries a couple of times, when Ramsay is a way ahead, to sound out a word around the gag and it's surprising that it's both so effective and so uncomfortable: nothing even resembling sense comes out, just a nasal grunt and hot spit slipping between his lips and cold metal.

He's going to get his mouth stuffed with cock, invariably: probably only Ramsay's because although he loves to threaten it he refuses to share... although the look on his face watching Damon manhandle him into the brace emakes Theon a lot less certain of that fact than he'd been on waking that morning, and that thought is simultaneously offputting and blistering hot. In any case, there's no way Ramsay will be able to look at the state of him and not shove him to the floor, snap that latch just as Dfamon showed him and take advantage of Theon's shackled face. 

He'll be asked questions he'll be punished for not answering correctly, if he knows Ramsay, and the silence left by his mute obedience will be filled with plenty of things that will be said for him with no opportunity to object, and then he's definitely going to get his throat fucked for his trouble.

But what if he doesn't? Theon's mouth has been held and stretched wide for just a few minutes and already he's drooling and desperate, dreaming about how his mouth will be violated with hot flesh rather than cold iron. But what if Ramsay just teases him and decides  _ not _ to take his due as Theon's lord and master? Because he knows Theon will be thinking about it, wanting it, and doesn't think he's earned it? He vows then to behave himself, to be good and obedient so that he'll be allowed to serve Ramsay with his mouth, because being denied it is the worst of so many apt punishments that flit through his head at that moment, and he can be so very, very good. Theon's mind settles into the groove worn by years of fantasy; by moons of practice at Ramsay's hands, by Ramsay's feet: it is not for him to care about what he gets, about his own needs, and Ramsay's finally called his bluff on being shown that the hard way, except he wasn't bluffing. 

The scold's bridle is a singularly undignified punishment, meant for shutting up errant wives charged with nagging their husbands... he's not heard of one used in years, and never on a man. He's humbloed by his own relief that they're headed back towards Ramsay's quarters and not the stocks or anywhere else he's like to be left freezing under a sign decrying his flaws... _Scold..._ _Pervert... Slut..._ The fact that the keepfolk passing by them and staring know full well that Reek never speaks unless he has no choice plants some wonderful thoughts. What could Ramsay possibly have done to make him pipe up a refusal, after all this? What might he do now he'll meet no further argument?

Theon holds his chin up – with some effort, the branks is heavy, he cant imagine how a woman would bear it - but keeps his eyes down, soaking in the gazes in mute agreement.  _ Yes, this is as bad as it looks. No, I won't be speaking anymore today. I've learned my lesson. _

And why should he, indeed? His is purely to serve Ramsay, to please him in whatever way his lord wants, and he doesn't need to be able to speak for that. It's better if he doesn't have the opportunity to voice his own petty objections. He is less than a slave or a dog now, mute and needless, an object belonging to Ramsay for Ramsay to do what he likes with. And they all know it, too. Damon as much as engineered an entire scenario for his Lord even before he was let in on a hint of the effortless pleasure Ramsay's toy can be used for, so he for one will have constructed a detalied and partially accurate image of how the rest of Reek's day might unfold.

Other staff stare as they pass, doubtless concocting their own horrors: that Ramsay may be about to do something to him entailing so much screaming that even he doesn't want to hear it; that poor Reek has finally lost the last of whatever ability he had to say no to the bastard's whims or even protest that he doesn't like what's happening to him, and some, surely, are twisted enough to have started imagining what he might do be allowed the use of his mouth back. He'd wager good coin that not one is warped enough to understand how badly he wants that.  



	2. Ache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An illustration I drew a little thought from can be found here: http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LukgjCH4RE4/VitoU9I_aMI/AAAAAAAAC5c/z55CaW4DYT0/s1600/witches_bridle_372x452.jpg You may have to copy and paste that, I have no idea how this works.
> 
> If anyone's looking for inspiration on such things I can recommend "Instruments of Darkness" (James Sharpe, 1996)

By the time they make a convoluted passage back to Ramsay's quarters. Theon's groin aches with the humiliation and his jaw... ache doesn't come close to describing the grinding discomfort in his jaw, which only whispers of the agony it's going to become before he's freed.

  _He could do anything, and I can't tell him to stop..._

He sets aside the fact he still has his hand signals in order to fully sink into the daydream that he's even more powerless to refute than usual. He rarely tries and when he does it usually doesn't achieve anything, but the thought is there, but now he's subject to whatever Ramsay does without even the ability to protest or complain, as if he wants it...

 ... _as if I don't._

 Ramsay takes his time locking the doors, removing his boots and cloak; all his usual rituals whilst he allows Theon to wallow in his subservience, to feel unimportant and objectified, to behave himself. Theon does behave, and for his pains he's treated to the slow tease of his master removing his gloves and jerkin, loosening the neck of his shirt; exposing bright skin with cruel hands.

Theon's mouth, held open around the bit, is dry and yet he's drooling: he begins to raise a hand to wipe it away but Ramsay shoots him a look fit to freeze him solid and Theon drops his hand, painfully aware of the string of spittle that ebbs from the corner of his mouth, stretches and drips. Surprisingly Ramsay isn't even feigning disgust, just staring hotly at him and smiling. He stretches a hand out and runs his finger along Theon's wet, swollen bottom lip, pulled tight against the obstruction of the gag.

 “Before you mock me for it I do realise this is literally the opposite of shutting you up. Although...” Ramsay cocks his head and raises his eyebrows, obviously waiting for a response that he isn't going to receive. “...it works!” He drops from cheerful mocking into a practiced tone of authority that is just ever so slightly from the one he uses on armies and dogs, hotter and colder all at once. “I warned you what would happen, and you disobeyed me.”

Theon's stomach somersaults. His cock twitches and presses hard into the lacing of his trousers; the gravity of his predicament is wrapping tight around him and it feels so good... how generous, how uncharacteristically  _ nice _ of Ramsay to give him exactly what he wanted even when he knew he was being goaded into it, and could so easily have just gagged Theon and ignored him or locked him outside. Theon resolves to thank him properly, when this is done: with a massage, perhaps, or a shave and a haircut with a hot bath... It's evident his usual currency for favours isn't going to be something he gets any choice in giving, and that sets his prick to throbbing properly, held against his thigh by his smallclothes.

Ramsay begins to lift Theon's clothes away from him but quickly comes unstuck: the neck of the tunic just will not accommodate the branks' metal frame and he expects Ramsay to rip it, but instead he just drops it back into place. Before Theon can adjust his expectation Ramsay has pulled a dagger from the sheath in his boot and he slits the fabric on one smooth slice upwards, pulling the swipe away just an inch short of the underneath of Theon's chin. The late flinch ripples all the way through Theon's body, taking its time on the way to his cock, which Ramsay leaves so tightly trapped in his linen smallclothes and woolen breeches both. He knows he'll get nothing to alleviate that ache for some time. He courted this trouble: just because it's meant for him to enjoy doesn't mean it's going to be easy for him and that's just fine.

Smirking, Ramsay disposes of the knife – so quickly and smoothly that Theon doesn't see where it goes – and pushes softly on Theon's shoulders. It's a gesture rather than force: Theon doesn't need further encouragement to sink to his knees. He chooses a formal kneel: upright and obedient, knees apart and shoulders back to display his body, head lifted to await instruction even though it feels strange to balance with the extra weight and stop his head lolling back under it. He's acutely aware of every line of his stance... the slight whistle of his breathing against the metal... and Ramsay's eyes, drinking him in in all his helpless, eager glory.

Ramsay grips him by the cheeks with one hand, squeezing his lips into a slack pout around the gag. “What have you done with this mouth of yours today?”

Theon makes himself look blank, fearful, because that's all he can do by way of answer. He makes an effort to steady his breathing because it's obvious from Ramsay's measured, threatening tone that there is no quick payoff on the horizon. It won't do to get carried away too quickly – he's made that mistake before.

“What have you done that's of any use to me?”

Theon remains silent as Ramsays fingers stroke underhis chin to lift it. He has no choice, after all, unless you count the undignified mumbling he doesn't doubt he'll be reduced to eventually, but he'll let Ramsay work him up to that.

“No? No kisses, no cleaning up, no sucking, not so much as a sweet word. Just nagging, like some sort of brazen fishwife. Do you not know your place, Theon? Do you not realise why I keep you here?”

Shame courses down his back, chased quickly by heat. Of course he does. He knows what he's for, and if he had any doubt, the device on his head pulling his mouth open and stuffing it full makes it obvious.

“Pretty little thing, aren't you?”

Theon doesn't even try to answer with a nod or shake of his head, if he can even do either of those things with the cage around it. If he disagrees he'll be cheeking his master, calling him wrong. If he agrees he's a proud slut and full of himself, and Ramsay may be wont to un-pretty him and prove a point. He just casts his eyes to the side, and downwards.

“Good job, really. I've no use for an ugly whore. I get terribly fussy when they're... undamaged, and have to start making it more interesting for myself.” 

Ramsay has a unique and inherent ability to sound like he's holding a knife when he isn't, but his grip around Theon's jaw feels almost as wonderfully dangerous. His voice is thoughtful and menacing, just the way that makes the hairs on the back of Theon's neck stand up, if any part of him able to be aroused wasn't rock solid already.  


 “And gods know you're hopeless for much else. Useless as a leader. Surprisingly little worth as a hostage, because your lot were only too glad to be shot of an invert like you. I'm yet to find a master in the keep who doesn't think you'd be more use somewhere else once you've worked under them. But you're an excellent cocksucker, I'll give you that. That earns you your keep even if you are insolent.” 

It's a thrill to be praised even though he knows he's good. He'd thought himself fairly adept before Ramsay had trained him in all the tricks he likes, to be his personal whore, and he knows now there can't be a mouth in the seven kingdoms more adept to make Ramsay come in it than his, and that fills him with pride as well as lust.

Ramsay grips the top of the brace and forces Theon to look him dead in the eyes, voice low and deceptively gentle, thoughtful. “But you'd do well to remember that you're only as safe as I am happy with your service.” That's close enough to the truth to spark a shiver and Ramsay's voice is its usual effortless, quiet ice. “... and I am the heir to House Bolton – your lord and master - and I have access to so, so much worse than this. So if I were you, Theon Greyjoy, I would be very careful about displeasing me.”

Theon shudders. Ramsay twists his hand so that each pressure point against Theon's face, chin and neck suddenly sears with renewed pain until he lets go.

“And this is your punishment. No more talking. You'll be allowed out to eat – whatever I choose to feed you –“ and there's a threat if ever he's made one, “and to make your mouth useful to me. You don't need to be freed from it to wash or to tend to my chambers or to get fucked, so I can't see any other reason to let you out. In fact,” he's had one of his good ideas, he's smiling, all teeth, “hang the drudgework! Others are better at that than you are. You were born for this, weren't you? To serve, and to please, and to do as you're told. And now no answering me back, and no touching this. I'll take it off you once you've learned what your mouth is for. Am I making myself clear?”

Before Theon can hazard any sort of gesture in answer – or, perhaps, to demonstrate that the right answer is to start straight away by staying passive and silent – Ramsay grabs the frame of the branks and nods for him.

 “Good. Good boy.”

Ramsay walks two tight, thoughtful circles around him, stopping breifly to detangle a curl of Theon's hair from a hinge.

 “Are you hungry?”

Theon goes to make a noise in answer but thinks better of it and shakes his head. In truth he must be: his stomach feels empty, squirling like it may rumble and Ramsay will tell him off if he turns down food and then it does, but he finds he can't eat when he's this physically excited. And hells, isn't he: the idea of being kept fettered and silent to be used only for Ramsay's pleasure makes his blood hotter still than it was at being locked up in the first place.

Ramsay raises an eyebrow but leaves him be. “Fine, have it your way.” His voice softens as he approaches. “But use your signals if you start getting dizzy, I won't have you fainting on me.” He unclips the mouthpiece and shoves his fingers into Theon's mouth, feeling around before pulling them out.

“How are your teeth?”

Theon gasps. The gag didn't interfere with his breathing, and yet it still feels like he needs to breathe the heavier for the sudden relief from it. He fights for control of his furred tongue, trying to recover his voice.

“Fine, m'lord. My forehead hurts a bit, and I-”

 “I didn't ask about your forehead.”

 Ramsay has been fussing about Theon's teeth since he lost two in quick succession: One in a merciless kicking he'd absolutely begged Ramsay for, right in the apex of his pain thrill, and one totally incidentally when someone had thrown a shield for him to hang up and he'd spectacularly failed to catch it. They are... were, next to each other, just behind his left canine so the gap is visible, tempting, perhaps even a little sexy to Ramsay but he doesn't want him to sustain any further damage. He fidgets around where Theon's jaw meets at the back, frowns, draws his hand back. He inspects the blood on the tips of his fingers, clicks his tongue and walks out of Theon's line of sight.

 When Ramsay returns it's with soft suede which he winds around the arms of the bit that had been sitting behind Theon's back teeth, squeezing at them to check his makeshift padding.

“There. That should be more comfortable for you.”

So Theon  _ is _ going back into it. This is not a game to finish once Ramsay's had his fun, and although he feels as though he should be frightened or upset, the idea of this being spun out into something elaborate spikes the heat in his belly. People will see...

“Thank you, my lord. I -”

Ramsay smiles over-sweetly at him, putting a finger to his lips.

“I didn't get you out of that so you could start talking again, you know. But you can thank me, if you'd like to.”

_ Thank you.   _ Theon takes the hint, and although he's confident even now that this won't be as simple as all that, that's obviously where he's expected to start and he busies his hands with the lacings of Ramsay's trousers. Ramsay's cock fairly springs out at him and he's not sure if that's the prolonged sight of him in this ridiculous contraption, or the unavoidable focus on his mouth, the power of having silenced him at last or perhaps the fear in the “ _W_ __h_ at's the Bastard up to now”' _ he so deliberately ignored on the way up the staircase, but it's only going to make his job easier. Not that he really wants it over quickly, not when he's been so hungry for exactly this.

And then at long last the head of Ramsay's prick is against his tongue.

Theon works enthusiastically, using the opportunity to stretch, work up fresh saliva and keep his jaw moving. It's not the easy, practiced working of Ramsays hotspots that he usually lapses into: it's lavish and relatively slow moving, Theon making the most of both the opportunity to please and the chance to relax his face.

With an easy hand on the bridle Ramsay stills Theon for long enough to pull his feet from the tangle of his trousers and manouvre them a short way so that he can sit down and settle Theon between his knees. Comfortable, he guides Theon's face back into position and lets him carry on at his own savouring pace. Ramsay's in no hurry and the implication is clear in the wry snarl on his face: why rush his pleasure? It's not as if Theon has anything more pressing to do.

Theon knows he's good at this – he's had enough practice, and he shivers suddenly at the idea that it's all he's going to be doing for a while - but it's rare that he's allowed to take his time enough to layer the slow sucking with plenty of the hungry looks up into Ramsay's eyes that he likes so much, plenty of tongue and the lazy, wet popping sounds as his lips drag over the crown of Ramsay's cock. He can't move his head as much as he'd like to because of the restriction the branks makes on his neck, but for once he has his hands free, and that's exactly it: this is about serving Ramsay willingly, without being made to or even asked, and he's going to make a good job of it.

Theon kneads at the flesh of Ramsay's thighs, teasing his way up to stroke at his balls whilst he sucks; Ramsay's enjoyment is relaxed and vocal and it heats Theon to see him take such unbridled enjoyment in him... summarily bridled though he may be. And just as he thinks it's slowing to a plateau, that Ramsay will surely grab his hair or the framework around his head and use it to move Theon where he wants him, Ramsay shuffles forward to tip his hips off the seat of the chair, so that on the next stroke downwards Theon's fingers trail towards his arse.

Ordinarily he'd scoff at a little display like that, but Theon's in quite enough trouble, and there are so many things he wants to say but he knows he's not supposed to be talking, that he has no place to question what his master wants, so pushes his mind back down into deep servitude, sucks on his fingers quickly and works one inside. Ramsay keens earnestly and shifts further down towards him, settling into the massage and the slick heat of Theon's mouth even once the talent is lost on him; Theon treats him to all the good things, the difficult stretches, the things Ramsay likes that Theon works hard for and that are wasted because Ramsay's already whining mindlessly and arching the small of his back.

When Ramsay comes it's copiously and with a satisfied groan, but Theon's relief is short-lived.

Before he can swallow the last of it Ramsay's bolted forwards, his strong fingers are wrenching Theon's jaw open and the metal bit is back in Theon's mouth, pressing his tongue down. It's so abrupt that his throat fights reflexively to clench but can't, and he has to give up before it chokes him.

It's not the first time Theon's been forced to hold Ramsay's seed in his mouth whilst it cools and whilst the texture of it is revolting, the taste is bitter but bearable... but pressed to his tongue with the tang of old iron it's almost acrid. It's overwhelming and he can feel it sticking in the back of his throat, dripping where the end of the metal plate rests and he hunches over with the effort not to gag around it. If he's sick now he'll choke, and he'll deserve it for being so ungrateful.

There's not so much as a patronising word of thanks or pat on the head before Ramsay drops his hold on the bridle and stands, although it takes him the breifest moment to get his knees to steady under himself, which takes the sting out of the sudden dismissal: Theon knows he was good, that he's served his purpose well, even if Ramsay doesn't thank him. And why should he? Ramsay is a lord, he doesn't thank any of his servants, much less slaves, much less still the desk or the footstool or any of the other objects around the room that are there for him to use as he likes, so why Theon, who is there just for this? He watches Ramsay wipe himself down and assemble smart clothes before he manages to get a hold on his own reeling and move to help him despite the cage pressing in on his head.

“What are you doing?”

_ Helping you dress for dinner, my lord  _ is what Theon would say if he could, but after “Hn'thn nn dth” and a headshake from Ramsay he gives up and drops his chin to give his very best contrite look, all doe eyes and what he knows are flushed, bruising lips.

“Oh, I see! No, no. You have new duties now, don't you understand? You are a dim thing. But I didn't keep you for your wits, I suppose. I can do this... you go, kneel over there until I want you.”

And so Theon does, all whilst Ramsay dresses and leaves without another word.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. Busy

All the time Ramsay is away Theon stays on his knees, mostly with his hands clasped behind his back partly because that is the correct position – there's no sport to a game if you cheat - and partially to keep them from doing anything that will cause him further trouble. He moves around a little at floor level, tidying away discarded items and straightening furs so that everything will be pleasant for Ramsay when he returns but for the most part he kneels hard and uncomfortable, waiting. The pain in his face is low and abiding. There's a headache, swimming under his consciousness, but he can bear it. He wonders if the bridle is marking... no,  _ how _ it is marking. Whether there'll be bruises, or just scarlet swelling from the persistent pressure in the straight squared lines of the framework. Whether the skin has rubbed raw yet, or whether it will have by the time Ramsay sees fit to remove the bloody thing. If he ever does. Perhaps he'll be stuck like this forever: more furniture than man, fucked and stored away until Ramsay wants him next, hard and wanting until Ramsay deems fit to allo him any pleasure for himself. 

He's lurking in his regular spot by the fireplace - it's the warmest part of the room even when the fire's long dead, out of the drafts of the windows and retaining heat from the charcoal - when a nameless maid enters with a tray of food which she's almost certainly been told is for Ramsay. It's probably for Theon, eventually, because Ramsay's late suppers are rarely actually for him, and certainly not alone, but somewhere between the nagging of his own humiliated arousal and the need to have Ramsay back so that he can please him further and perhaps earn himself some relief, hunger is a distant concept.

The maid has a proper look both at him and at the room, and the Bastard of Bolton may be a lot of things but he's not wont to turn invisible , so she relaxes. She puts the food down.

“Is he... is Lord Ramsay...”  With the pressure off, she composes herself. “Oh hells, you can't even answer me, can you? I'll leave this here, it's not as if you can eat it, as if you'd dare, poor creature.” Her face softens. Maybe there's even a touch of appraisal, and there's been a time when Theon absolutely would have had her, as if that was going to go an inch towards filling his needs. “There'll be spare in the kitchens, when you're... able to come down. Oh heavens, look at the state of you.”

Which bit of the state of him she's referring to, Theon isn't sure. It could be the scars and welts over his slim frame, streaked with grime as he stll is from the early morning's toil and the sortie to the sheds. It could be Ramsay's seed dried on his chest – the brace prevents him from looking down enough to check whether that's a truth but on the whole his master enjoys marking him so visually and although most of it went in his mouth he can't say for certain he'd be surprised if there were white streaks dried over his collarbones. It could be the saliva that's tracking down its own dried path on his chin. Hopefully it's not his erection: admitedly modesty has never been Theon's strong suit but it's got to be noticeable through his clothes should she chance to look, but then, why would she? She's far too busy looking at the thing on his head, peering to see the way it prises his jaw apart and keeps his tongue flat, and he revels in it.

_ No, miss. No food for me. No words for me, no complaints. I'm just here for Ramsay to do whatever he wants to... with... on... over. It's not my concern. I'll just kneel here like a good boy, like I've been told to. _

He's shuddering to himself as she leaves and that's likely perceived as him falling back into one of his broken little reveries in fear. He's desperate to take a hand to himself and nearly caves into it, but Ramsay's trusted him enough to leave his hands unbound and it would be deeply foolish to prove that to be a mistake. Besides, he doesn't have any way of telling how long he has.

Ramsay's dinners with his father tend to be either protracted and military, in which case they could stretch on long into the night, or perfunctory, awkward and over as quickly as possible. When the door opens again it's obviously been the latter but it feels like a lifetime, and he looks as if he's almost forgotten what he'd be coming back to when he sees Theon kneeling in wait for him. Still, he does his best to maintain lordly nonchalance, walking over and inspecting the food that's been left before even acknowledging Theon, and even then it's only with a glance over him as though he's a vaguely pleasing extra dish he'd not remembered asking for whilst he releases himself from his trousers with one hand, picking over food with the other.

He's not even hard, but it seems he just can't pass the opportunity up when presented with it. He leaves the table and runs his hand softly over his cock until it stiffens into his grasp, no hurry, clearly enjoying the eagerness in Theon's eyes and the fact his heavyhanded lesson appears to be having the desired effect because even though he might not have been desperate for this, Theon is. It shows on his face, in the shift of his knees against the floor: Theon is suddenly consumed with the need to have Ramsay in his mouth again, not that reluctance would have made any difference as Ramsay pops the catch on the bridle, removes the plate from between Theon's numb lips and immediately replaces it with his stiff prick before Theon can get a word out.

Enthusaism comes upon Ramsay quickly, when Theon voluntarily goes limp and lets him feel how easy it is to move him by the frame of the branks, relaxing his throat and taking Ramsay as deep as he chooses to push. Which, of course, is as deep as he can before he pulls Theon's mouth away and then back again, working steadily up to a merciless fucking of his face that Theon's only too grateful to take, because even thinking those words makes his cock throb, knowing full well it wouldn't matter a bit to Ramsay if he wasn't... He moans through his nose and belatedly wonders if he's allowed to make that sort of noise, but it doesn't seem to put Ramsay off in the slightest. If anything, it helps.

Theon takes his cue and really lets Ramsay have reign over his throat, letting himself gag and choke on Ramsay's cock as he forces it down his neck. He doesn't put anything on; just doesn't surpress the flinching of his muscles as Ramsay shoves himself deep enough to make Theon almost retch; lets him hear him struggling around his prick, lets the thick saliva pool and run for Ramsay to thrust himself into.

If Theon's arousal had dwindled at all whilst he was left alone, it returns to him full force, thundering under his skin at being used so carelessly, and Ramsay must know what it's doing to him. He knows Theon likes it like this. He loves to see his pet so happy to serve: Ramsay would often encourage Theon to rut himself to completion sucking on his cock, against his shin or the toe of his boot – and in this state he could do it, too - but Theon hasn't been offered that honour tonight, so he doesn't. Even whilst he aches to shuffle forward and press his body against Ramsay's legs, to find contact to rub against whilst he takes Ramsay right to the back of his throat with enough force to bruise. Ordinarily just asking for something so pathetic as being allowed to pleasure himself over this would be enough to make Ramsay inclined to be generous, but Theon knows if he uses his mouth for anything other than what it's already doing right now there'll be hell to pay. Ramsay will reward him when he sees fit.

Ramsay grows breathless with the effort of yanking Theon's head down onto his cock and of staving off orgasm, but it still catches him sooner than he means for it to, holding Theon's head still by the frame whilst he spills hot into his mouth, one breathy  _ “fuck” _ all the warning Theon's afforded. But at least this time he waits until Theon's swallowed properly and even passes him wine to take a swig from before he pushes the metal tongue back over Theon's own; if Ramsay's surprised by how willingly Theon takes it in, how he relaxes his jaw again and just allows Ramsay to refasten the bit, it's not half as shocked as Theon is.

“Good boy. You're learning.”

Half a noise of protest that it's much too late for – seconds too late to prevent the harness being closed around his face; hours too late to back out of this game; moons and moons too late for any hope of not surrendering to every whim Ramsay's perverse little heart desires – and Theon is once again fully branked. He tries not to think about how he's getting used to the pressure even on the sorest points, adjusting to the weight as if it's normal. As if he were born for this. His cock throbs.  


“Come here.”

When Theon snaps to, Ramsay is standing by the table, and he scrambles to join him. It's quicker to crawl than to stand, walk and then kneel again, and instead of laughing at him Ramsay looks somewhat proud.

“Are you hungry?”

Theon shakes his head vaguely – he is, but he's too caught up to think about it – and without warning Ramsay smacks him, straight to the face with a flat hand. A slap or a punch would knock the brace and he obviously hasn't quite worked out how much damage that will do, so it's an awkward, half pulled thing but it still hurts plenty. Theon reels, and the blossom of what will be a beautiful bruise on his cheekbone sends the arousal flooding through him afresh: he's so tightly wound that even the pain itself feels good. He's not honeslty sure how much of this – the constant tide of use and humiliation, of lust and teasing and manhandling - he can take without spending spontaneously in his smallclothes.

“You're going to fucking eat,” Ramsay hisses. “You're no use to me weak.” And he yanks Theon awkwardly to sit between his feet again and pulls the table across the floor - furniture, people, they come to Ramsay, never the other way round – so that he can easily reach the food he's about to shove in Theon's mouth.

He'd have eaten voluntarily, eventually, but this is so much better. Theon knows how Ramsay loves to feed him, and he eagerly opens his mouth as the tonguepiece is removed on its hinge again. He knows how shameless that looks, and if he knows him as intimately as he think, this will be what Ramsay remembers from this game and moons about later: Theon with his freshly-abused mouth so willingly open for what Ramsay decides to put in it next.

Ramsay grasps him by the back of the head with one hand and pulls him close, not quite close enough to kiss although Theon abruptly feels like a maid on her wedding day; close enough to spit with accuracy, and Theon's mouth is still open, unresisting, but he doesn't. He just looks at where he's putting each morsel of sticky preserved fruit before placing it squarely on Theon's tongue and coaxing his mouth closed around it, watching intently as he chews and swallows every piece, rubbing at his throat when he's too slow. It's hard work: Theon's jaw grinds and his throat aches, so every mouthfull is an ordeal that Ramsay's too happy to see him go through.

Sure enough Ramsay's eyes darken and his breathing gets heavier as he does it. Theon's not sure exactly what it is about feeding him that riles Ramsay up, especially considering he's just had his mouth so it's not that he'll be fantasizing about his cock where his fingers are right now, stroked by Theon's tongue, covered in stale saliva and probably still traces of his own seed... but unquestionably, by the time Theon has swallowed down the last of the food – opening up to show his empty mouth and let Ramsay put the bit back between his teeth – Ramsay is aroused, predatory and powerful.

Still, he doesn't tarry further about getting them to bed: he knows he can have Theon whenever, however he wants, so he needn't act on every whim. He helps Theon out of his soft woolens – acknowledging but paying no actual attention to his wretchedly hard cock - and towards the bed, but amongst his rationed touches are careful grips and although he's surprised, Theon doesn't struggle when his hands are bound loosely but effectively behind his back.

 “It's going to be ever such a long night for you,” Ramsay nods at Theon's head trapping by way of an explanation, as if he might not have noticed it. “I'm sure it will be hard to sleep in until you get used to it, and I wouldn't want you injuring yourself fidgeting.” He smiles brightly. “Or waking me up. Now, come and lie with me.”

It's strange, being allowed into Ramsay's bed but not kissed before sleep, although Theon understands that kissing and pillow talk aren't luxuries that will be afforded to him in this role. Pillows themselves seem to be an issue, as Theon finds lying on them causes the brace to prop his neck to a peculiar angle, so he opts to push them out of the way with his head and lie flat, uncomfortable, hard as iron himself with the rivets on the metalwork digging in to the back of his head and his hands pressing into the top of his arse.

 


	4. Want

Ramsay falls asleep quickly and heavily, with a loose grin on his face, and the few moments spent admiring him don't seem like any waste of time considering sleep does not seem to be an option for Theon. Without the distraction of Ramsay's needs to service, Theon's face is agony and he's just starting to notice the burn of his shoulders where he's been forced to lay on his bound hands, and the soreness at his temples where the bridle seems to be growing tighter as the night wears on.  Ramsay snores, and with some bodily effort Theon manages to roll himself onto his side and over onto his front , disturbing Ramsay just enough to quiet him for a moment but not to wake him. Face down, with his head on the side, Theon finds the frame actually shifts minutely, and although the immediate sensation almost makes him cry out in shock, after the needling of blood flowing back into the most pressed-upon parts comes a blissful sort of tingling. It's still pain, but it's a welcome repreive from the unbroken squeezing he's had all day.  


It makes it no easier to sleep.

All the time he's lying sleepless and uncomfortable, Theon's arousal throbs against the bed beneath him: recalling the day's events does little to alleviate that pressure either.

He counts onlookers in his head the way a child might count sheep, and wonders if even one is laying awake so late? Perhaps they're recalling seeing Lord Ramsay dragging his pet boy back to his chambers with some gods awful contraption around his face, keeping him silent and compliant, no matter what sick and disgusting things his master might decide to do to him. Theon squirms.  


Damon certainly looked as if he found his own idea appealing, or mayhaps the speed at which he called the suggestion to mind betrayed a fantasy of his own. Had he thought about using Theon for himself? He'd have the sense never to have let on as much to Ramsay if he had. Or was it perhaps that Ramsay's boasting has planted a hunger in him? Perhaps Ramsay really had offered to lend Theon out as he so often threatened to: to pay back a favour or a lost bet, or any other flimsy excuse simply because he'd enjoy watching Theon have his mouth put to work in a way he just can't _see_ when it's him with his prick shoved so far down Theon's throat that his tight balls sit wetly, comfortably against Theon's chin. Ramsay would so love to watch someone else be that rough with him, to take their pleasure from Theon's helpless mouth. He'd have his own cock in hand, enjoying the show, so that when Damon ...would it be Damon? Would it just be Damon? Ramsay's not a terribly careful gambler and Theon can just imagine being made to kneel for a whole succession of men hismaster owes some unspecific debt to, serving cock after cock or at the very least allowing them to make use of his mouth, each replaced with another as soon as it's shot its load down his throat before he can even see who it belongs to, as if it matters, and his mouth held open with his gag whenever it's not busy...but Ramsay would be ready, riled by the voyeurism, to have him straight after the last man and chase the taste down with his own. He's jealous like that.

_ And I'd still want more. _

Theon writhes against the bedclothes. He's doing himself no favours but he can't help it: despite the sweet fruits and the wine he can still taste Ramsay's come on the tang of the iron filling his mouth, and if he concentrates hard enough - he's so close to dreaming, even awake - he can almost imagine that solid shape strecthing his lips open is Ramsay's cock again. His hands twist uselessly in the small of his back, fingers nudging almost unconsciously into the top of the crack of his arse... _oh_. With enough bending, he could probably reach enough to tease at his hole with the tip of a finger or two, which in his near-fevered state might be enough, combined with the friction of the covers and his slick stomach, to let him come. But even the soft humping of his hips into the covers to relieve the worse of the ache is jogging the bed. Any more is sure to disturb Ramsay and Theon is trying so hard to be good, he mustn't trouble his master with his inconsequential needs: he's sleeping, and if he were awake he'd have a hundred things more important to do than pay any attention to Theon's searing, all consuming need to get off.

He'll be grateful just to be allowed to pleasure him again, to have his master's cock in his slut mouth, to be granted the taste and the smell of him and afforded the chance to make him feel good. If he does it really, really well Ramsay might even allow him to touch himself. He can't ask, with his mouth full of either cock or metal gag at all times, and he'll end up wearing the bridle forever if he doesn't learn that Ramsay only wants him for fucking, to look pretty and to take a beating if it's what will enhance his lord's enjoyment at that moment, and he doesn't need to speak to give him what he wants. But he can hope that if he's good enough at taking whatever he's dished out, Ramsay might want to see him make himself come whilst he does it. Theon knows he's made for that, just perfect to serve Ramsay in the way nobody else is fit to: to take care of his whims and his weirdness, but that's all he's good for.  Just a warm body – a mouth – for him to fuck whenever he wants to. Just holes for Ramsay to come in when he needs to, because why would someone of Ramsay's status – a lord no less- take themselves in hand when they have something like him to use? A nothing, a nobody, just a whore...

Theon swallows hard, throat muscles fighting against the metal and making his eyes water.

If anything it's suprising he didn't make a little more use of him today, and Theon's too far gone to pretend that what he feels about that is relief. Isn't he good enough? Was he too greedy? He needs to learn to pace himself and not to just gorge himself on cock the moment he's offered it...  


Perhaps tomorrow he'll be settled under Ramsay's writing desk – he never did finish those letters, come to think of it – working gently and unobtrusively with his tongue until Ramsay decides he's had enough, gives him a tap with his foot and prompts him to finish him off. And then when Ramsay comes in his mouth, he'll be kept there instead of beckoned up for his usual quick kiss and going to fetch them drinks. Kept still with Ramsay's cock softening in his mouth, careful with the soothing of his tongue until he's past the oversensitivity and can suckle him to hardness again... Ramsay able to get on with his work whilst Theon provides him with pleasurable background sensation and takes care of his prick slowly, to keep him focused.

He knows how his knees will burn, his back will ache and his jaw... will feel much like it does now, beyond description; he thinks of how his tongue will tire and his throat will sting but he has no doubt that he can coax Ramsay right through to come a second time... a third? If he kept him there long enough... 

He wracks his brain for how many times he's known Ramsay to work up to spilling in the course of a day; wonders how many letters Ramsay needed to write; how long he could be kept cramped and out of sight under a desk, without break for rest or food or drink, no sustenance other than the well-earned reward that's a mouthful of Ramsay's come, fresh and bitter, each load so much harder work to receive than the last when the first was more or less just waiting to have an eager mouth to spill into. Still, Ramsay is generous with it, giving him every drop he can manage, with just the quietest grunt in acknowledgement as he spends a fourth or fifth time. He's so nonchalant about his pleasure that an onlooker might not even notice...

Theon can see so vividly how Ramsay would welcome in whoever happened to call upon him, continue on a conversation without looking up from his work because they're no more important than the boy under the table sucking his cock, who they may not even see. And if they did – if they dared call attention to it, shocked by the spectacle of a man being degraded like that when it's only Ramsay taking what's his right, he'd only carry on. Perhaps he'd yank Theon out from under the table, still shoved all the way down his throat, Theon gagging and spluttering on his prick for show as though he doesn't know exactly how to take it, and revel in their discomfort as they watch Theon work, talking about politics or dinner or inconsequential things... anything is surely bound to be more remarkable than Theon simply being used for what he's good for, what he's best at, on the floor like the cheapest of whores, his knees black and bluefrom the pressure of constantly kneeling like that, day after day, for all to see...

He's just about made it as far as feverish dozing in short spells when Ramsay wakes him, and in an exhausted haze it takes Theon a few moments to put together why he can't freely move his head, why his jaw hurts so badly. Why his arms are aching and his cock, trapped against the bed, is rock hard and leaking and yet he's not taken a hand to it in his sleep... the bonds at his wrists explain both of the latter, at least.

Theon almost yelps as Ramsay pushes at the metal framework that now feels like an extension of Theon's neck and skull to give his lips access to Theon's shoulders, as if it's a normal morning, as though the thing's not even there. It  _ hurts _ , but Ramsay doesnt pay it any mind, skimming his hand past Theon's bound wrists and down to grope at his arse. Suddenly it's so imminent that Theon's head swims: Ramsay's breath is scalding on his neck, his erection nudges blatantly into Theon's hipbone, wet at the tip, and his hands seem to be everywhere at once as he detangles them from the bedding, exposing Theon's nudity to the cool air of the room, to himself.

Ramsay runs nails down his backside, warming the skin, and Theon wriggles shamlessly into every touch.  _ Yes, yes...  _ He'd been so busy thinking about his own greedy mouth that he hadn't really given much thought to being fucked in the bridle but now he can picture it, the way Ramsay will grab the metal at the back where it clasps and yank him around, pull him up to nearly standing to get the right angle for himself even though it hurts, and Theon needs that.

His whole body clenches, ready; his mind is one step ahead; he can already feel a shadow of the way Ramsay's cock will drive into that spot inside of him and he knows it won't matter if Ramsay reaches a hand down to him or not, if he permits it or not: he's been aching for release for so long now that he won't have a choice. He'll come even if he knows he'll pay for it later.

As if he's somehow heard the words Theon can't say, Ramsay stops to reconsider, with just the tips of his fingers nestled between the cheeks of Theon's arse.

“Hmm.”

It is entirely possible that the only thing more viscerally frightening than Ramsay in full fireceness is when he pretends he's being sweet, and that tone is one that makes dread spring out as a sweat on Theon's back.

“Isn't taking care of my pleasure supposed to be your job?”

It is, of course it is, and Theon would normally prepare his own body so that Ramsay can just fuck into him at his leisure, but for that Ramsay would have to untie his hands and wait. And if he's woken up hard and needs it  _ now _ , it's not Theon's place to leave him hanging whilst he does all that just so he can get fucked the way he wants it. Not with his mouth held open and ready.

 “Am I supposed to have to work for it?”

Theon is not stupid. He makes sure the shake of his head is plainly visible. He should have resisted this straight away, he knows that now – it's too selfish, too easy. He is there to provide warm, wet places for Ramsay to spend his load, not to make him spend his first waking moments fiddling around for access and massaging at Theon's arse, however badly he wants it.  

“And the oil is all the way over there!” Ramsay pauses as if expecting an answer and then continues as if he's received one. “Oh no, I don't want to go without. That would hurt you, wouldn't it?”

Some mad instinct tells Theon to shake his head, that the pain would be worth it as this point, but he forces himself to nod. It doesn't matter. Ramsay will get what he wants, one way or another, and he will have served his purpose.   


Although the initial whimper of frustration is involuntary, Theon quickly counters it with a scramble up to his knees. Twice, in the process of trying to turn himself round whilst sleep deprived, delirious and without the use of his hands he pitches forward onto his face, knocking the bridle and making himself whine pathetically because that's the only noise that comes out. He would be screaming: at the pain, in apology, in sheer fucking _need_ but the branks will not allow for that. Nor will it allow him any dignity: he loses his balance again and Ramsay just manages to catch him before he falls, caged face first, into his lap. As fitting as that seems, Theon doesn't want to think about the metal making contact with the unyeilding rigidity of Ramsay's prick. 

"What's this, my sweetling? Do you mean to offer me some other way to please myself, besides your pretty arse? You want me to release you for a moment, so that you can tell me? I do hope this is worth it. Your nagging bores me."

Ramsay presses at the catches, making that now familiar sound that sets Theon's mouth to watering before he can really think about why and swings the tongue plate out, pushing it to the side and out of Theon's face.

 Theon simply opens his mouth, pushes his tongue forward a little, and waits. Ramsay keeps his cool, even though his cock twitches.

“You may speak.”

Carefully, because the wrong words may be all he gets to say for a long, long time.

 “If it please you, my lord...

 “Yes?”

The humiliation burns. “That's what my mouth is for.”

Ramsay groans in satisfaction and pulls him forward to prove him right.

The taste is almost all the relief Theon needs. The hot firmness of Ramsay's flesh in his mouth that's so much softer, more forgiving than the iron of his gag even though it's already throbbing with need, and he's aflame with how much Ramsay wants him like this, meek and desperate to please. He can't bring himself to be embarrassed about the amount off drool that slips down Ramsay's cock as he works on it, as long as Ramsay likes it. Whatever Ramsay wants, whatever Theon has to do to impress him, to show him how good and willing he is, how grateful he is for this. He watches for his cues determinedly: the little nudge of Ramsay's hips when he wants his cock taken deeper; the quiet puff of frustration when he's had as much enjoyment as he's like to from one speed and wants something else; the open-throated moan when Theon seems to read his mind and sucks him exactly right. With his hands still bound behind his back, Theon has to use the momentum of the bob of his head to keep himself upright until Ramsay grabs the back of the bridle and takes the weight, pulling him into position for the final throes.  


Ramsay's panting - almost laughing - as he uses his leverage to dip Theon's head into his lap. Mostly he stares fixedly at his cock sliding into Theon's mouth, pushing at his cheeks when he moves him sideways, so easily... every now and then he looks away and bites his lip, like he can't take it. He breathes deep and aims for generous nonchalance. It's close enough for Theon.

"That's it. Good boy. You've earned this."

Theon doesn't need to wonder what he's earned. His mouth is flooded with heat and salt and he's moaning around Ramsay's last thrusts, and he can't close his swollen lips firmly enough to stop some of it dribbling out over his chin as Ramsay pulls away from him, leaving him to swallow down his reward in his own time. 

Cheerful, Ramsay pads over, opens the door to the antechamber and pick up the food that's been left for him. There is also, Theon notices, a large basket in which he can see a roll of calico and a heavy pair of pliers. He doesn't need to look to see what else is there and Ramsay ignores it anyway, bringing himself over just a plate of black bread and oddments which he sits down and sets across his bare legs to start picking at.  He spreads some honey on a corner of bread, twists it to stop it drizzling onto the platter or his legs, and takes a thoughtful bite. 

“I must say, yesterday was wonderful, and I could wake up to this more often. Easy life, breakfast in peace... Oh, don't give me those eyes." He sets the plate on the table, and pats his lap. "Come here. Shall I reward you for your dutiful service?”

Theon blinks stupidly. He knew, really, that Ramsay would not actually keep him in a bridle for the rest of his days but he's surprised to have passed this test without any real suffering, unless he counts the miserable straining of his cock and the fact he doesn't feel like his teeth will ever meet together straight again. He crosses to kneel by his feet nd ducks to allow Ramsay to unbolt the bridle... but of course he's got that wrong.

“Oh no. That suits you. Keep it on for a while.”

 A while. It's been one day and Theon has forgotten what his own voice sounds like. What it was ever like to get a say in what's done to him. He can't tell if the twist low in his belly is fear or arousal, or in fact if he's ever been able to distinguish the difference. Either way he loves it, and the jolt of uncertainty as to whether this game goes next, the reminder of Ramsay's power, is close to being enough to make his knees buckle.

 When instructed he climbs up and sits himself down heavily in Ramsay's lap, the tiredness, the bound hands and the heaviness around his head unsettling his balance. Ramsay's skin is scalding against his own overworked sweat. His hands squirm awkwardly between the small of his back and Ramsay's stomach and Ramsay twists him sideways to sling Theon's legs across the arm of the chair, laying him out across his lap.

Ramsay looks pleased about this, and rather than the lusty, proud sort of pleased it's a somewhat predatory expression of smugness that makes Theon actually consider wriggling away from him even if it will mean ending up on his face on the floor, but then Ramsay's got one arm cradling the back of Theon's neck and his other, without hesitation, goes to Theon's prick.

His strokes are immediately purposeful, aimed for efficiency... a mercy, under any other circumstances, but Theon knows better than to expect any such thing so the way Ramsay's thumbing so deftly at the underneath of the head, the way he spits in his hand before starting to twist at him opens up hot dread in the pit of Theon's stomach even whilst he's arching into the touch. Blissful heat floods out from his spine and he tries to fight it: it won't be this easy. It never is. There's going to be a catch.

Still, if Ramsay's going for making him come as quickly as humanly possible, he's not about to meet a lot of resistance. Theon has been aching since Ramsay grabbed him by the shoulder and dragged him down to the dungeons. He's been hard since the teasing before that. The intensity got a bit much for his rational mind kneeling at Damon's feet, watching Ramsay watch him have his mouth pulled around and filled, and it's been abjectly painful since he was left kneeling with his face so tightly restricted and his mouth full of slippery metal and the remnants of Ramsay's come. The rest of the time has been a brutal and bloody war between the degradation-fueled arousal, the desperatee need to please and how much his face hurts. So of course his prick responds easily to the hand wrapped around it, jerking and pulsing and leaking in a way that betrays exactly how close Ramsay is to getting what he wants.

 “Enjoying this, aren't you! Maybe I'll keep you like this, then.”

 There it is, the poisoned chalice, and typically it makes excitement lurch through Theon's body. He should have known exactly where this was going.

“You're not much good for anything else, anyway. May as well keep you muzzled like a dog and just use you when I want you. Chain you up here until I feel like fucking your face, and then shut you back up when I'm finished. Shall I do that?”

Bridled forever. No more menial duties around the keep, although that won't stop people seeing and knowing that Ramsay keeps him trussed up so he can have his way with him whenever and however, without complaint. Not to mention all the other things he might be doing to him...   


Theon may not be blessed with all the sense he should have but he usually balks from Ramsay's horrible little conundrums at the very last second just in case he actually means it this time, and Ramsay sometimes lets him come anyway or being such a good sport. It's never worth the risk of actually calling his bluff, so Theon lets him win by surrendering at the last moment. Just in case. He _is_ a fucking Bolton.  


But... he can't. Can't get his mouth to form anything that sounds even vaguely like his word and somehow the mounting panic robs him of even more time...he can't help his body's response to the touches and the talk, to the days worth of internalised humiliation, the taste... he jerks in Ramsay's fist, so close.

“Oh, sorry, you can't speak. How silly of me. You'll just have to show me some other way but you can't even nod, can you?”

  _Oh no._

Theon squirms desperately but it doesn't interrupt the fluid beauty of the sensation around his cock as Ramsay strokes it, taunting with his voice but not his hands. Theon flails to think of something, anything, that will pour ice on the pleasure an stop him from spilling but is trapped in the loop of his own perversion: the worse the image he calls to mind, the more it riles him up, the more wretched he feels for being aroused by such awful things and the closer he gets...

“You want to be reduced to this full time? A bridled whore? Less than a whore, actually. Because at least they might enjoy getting fucked, but why would I go to the effort of fucking you when I can just have your mouth? But you don't need that, do you, you're only here to please me.” He's looking into Theon's eyes now as he strokes at him, icy flint if stone could look like it was  _ winning _ . “You like having your mouth put to work that much? Then come. Then I'll know how badly you want it.”

Oh, Theon wants it.

No, he doesn't want it, not that, but he's totally unable to say so and behind his back, his hand gesture is equally useless, and no amount of writhing is helping. He's going to come, and he's going to be stuck like this, speechless and inhuman, for Ramsay to use his mouth to come in – not even to fuck him and let him have whatever incidental pleasure he can glean from himself from that, but to shove his cock down Theon's throat and get himself off whenever he sees fit ….

A moment's heavenly weightlessness before a blistering freefall. Every inch of Theon's trecherous body is molten gold and he spurts helplessly over Ramsay's fist.

There's a few seconds of shaking, seething, ominous silence as Theon spasms and pants raggedly around wet metal, and then Ramsay lets out a low whistle.

 “You're lucky I love your smart mouth so much or that might have seriously just landed you in it.” 

His hands are already on the hinges, tucking carefully at Theon's hair so it won't catch in the metal as he pulls the clasps open one at a time and gradually frees him. Sensation returns to Theon's face in livid pangs whilst his cock twitches, limp and dripping, against his thigh. 

“Honestly, Theon, your self preservation instincts need a lot of work. Come here.”

 Theon lets himself be gathered closer in to Ramsay's lap, held softly into his chest. The shaking from the intensity of his orgasm doesn't seem to be abating yet, and he feels chilled, exhausted.   


Only half way back to reality, his voice is raspy and not confident. “You... aren't going to -”

Ramsay scoffs, excuses him the stupidity because he's overwrought and kisses him absently at the first point his lips meet: near the jaw, right on a fresh bruise. Somehwere, the infernal fucking scold's bridle clatters to the floor. 

“Fuck off Thee, of course not. Where would I be without your back chat? Or you kissing my ears when you think I'm asleep?” 

Theon blinks at him.

“Or you  _ screaming  _ like a whore and biting at me when I fuck you...I quite like the biting, you know.” Ramsay extends his chin and Theon obediently takes his cue to press his teeth just into the skin.  


Pushing him away just enough to produce a knife from behind the chair and free Theon's wrists, Ramsay kisses him absently but lovingly, along to the dried blood where this lips have cracked at the corner. “Besides. I very much like when you suck my cock of your own accord, because you want to,” another kiss, “Because because you love it, because you're a slut. It would be rude of me to deny you that.”

Theon shudders and has nothing at all to say to that, so remains silent.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, particularly if you stuck with it this far. I do hope you enjoyed it. Please feel free to let me know what you thought and whether you have any prompts/suggestions/favourite instruments of torture for future projects!
> 
> For those who care about my titling, yes I did bend my own rule of Alkaline Trio titles for this one: I was struggling to find something that worked and happened to be listening to Jawbreaker's 1995 masterpiece Dear You when I wrote bits this, and it seemed appropriate, so I then raided their back catalogue for chapter titles. Expect more, because for some reason chirpy post-punk seems to be my Thramsay writing jam.


End file.
